


föl (a thick film of snow covering the ground)

by americanjedi



Series: Beautiful Icelandic Words [2]
Category: LazyTown
Genre: Gen, Halibut, Headaches & Migraines, Stingy mostly throws up and then has pepperment oil put on his face, The Princess Bride References, nongraphic peppermint oil, nongraphic vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 18:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10792782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americanjedi/pseuds/americanjedi
Summary: Stingy has a migraine and Sportacus has a moment.  Robbie helps them both.





	föl (a thick film of snow covering the ground)

**Author's Note:**

> A combined prompt from an Anon about migraines and snuffles05 about Robbie saving the day. So here it is! Enjoy 3000 words of me trying to figure these characters out. (Please do keep in mind I’m writing these to figure out these characters.)

Sportacus was practicing the new flip kick his brother had shown him when the AI alerted him. “Incoming mail.”

He cartwheeled over to catch the tube as it flew up through the floor, it always felt too strange to go from flipping to walking again.

“What could it be?” he asked no one in particular, although sometimes the AI responded according to her mood.

“It came from the school,” she told him and left it at that.

Maybe the kids wanted him to come teach them some trick again?

The paper was a faint blue, and the note was written in Ms. Busybody’s script, grace with a barely concealed line of authority underneath. 

_Stingy is sick, he needs to go home. His parents are working, will you come get him?  
Ms. B_

He felt his eyebrows crumple together, it always felt weird under his hat.

Sportacus had been around sick people before, as a hero that was. His crystal had called him to someone who was ill before, like when Mr. Hyperbyte had an asthma attack or when Ms. Busybody had that bad flu and needed someone to go get her medicine. Both of those times the person had been an adult and reasonably alright. They’d understood what was happening to them and what they needed to do, and in general were adults. An ill child was something else. 

He jumped out of the plane and flipped his way over to the school, sticking his landing in the nurse’s office. For a moment he startled in the dark room, trying to get his bearings. Ms. Busybody froze at the standing cupboard, illuminated by the light coming in through the open door, with a mop in one hand and then there was Stingy next to her lying on a narrow cot. The boy’s face was clenched up in a knot of pain, his body contracted in jagged angles and twisted features. The smell the boy’s thready pain and the acid of vomit floated over the top of the familiar perfumed scent of Ms. Busybody and the chemical smell of the nurse’s office.

Alarm jolted through him, pushing him back on his heels, his eyes wide. He took in the papery dryness of the boy’s face as though he was being somehow mummified, looked down to the rubbish bin pushed into range of the cot, the way the wit and activity of Stingy had been reduced to a trembling figure on a thin mattress.

“It’s a migraine,” Ms. Busybody whispered, putting the mop away and closing the cupboard door. 

“A migraine?” he repeated, he could hear the nervous thickness of his accent. How was he supposed to protect Stingy from a migraine? In the past, he’d heard Robbie grumble about his migraines, but had never _seen_ what one looked like.

“A really bad headache,” she explained, voice soft. Perhaps misunderstanding him, perhaps needing something to say just as much as he did to push back the helplessness. “Mrs. Rotten used to get them, I believe Robbie does too.”

“Mrs. Rotten?” Sportacus asked, just for something to say. He still felt frozen, panicked. 

“She was before your time, I think. Blew up the old city hall once. Saved the clock though, she said tradition was important. She was like that,” she spoke in a soft tone. “Stingy probably should go home, but his father works until seven and his mother doesn’t get off until six.” 

“What can I do?” Sportacus asked.

“You can lower your voice," Ms. Busybody told him.

Sportacus jolted in place, awkward and stumbling over what to do. He felt unsteady not knowing how to solve this problem, felt out of place. This wasn't an apple he could knock out of a tree or a fence he could flip over. "Sorry!" he whispered back.

"Migraines make him sensitive to light and to noise," she told him, lifting one finger, lecturing again, in teacher mode already. “He needs to head home, I can’t just leave him here. That’s why I called you, I need to get back to class. There are other students here, you know."

Sportacus felt a mixture of alarm and frustration at her flippant answer, true though it may have been. Did she see how pale the boy was? Couldn't she smell his distress?

Stingy stirred on the small bed. His voice sounded wet and pained, ragged at the corners and alarming. As reedy and thin as the smell of pain coming off of him. "Don't leave me! I don't want to be left alone, I want someone to stay with me!"

Sportacus jolted, surprised. He needed to relax, to stay still. Inside an enclosed space, flipping and jumping, with someone who suffered at every sound? It would be a disaster.

With effort Stingy began to lift his head to look at the two of them, then his brow knit together in a way Sportacus had never seen in a child before. Stingy's face turned impossibly paler, sweat beading up on his brow and suddenly he vomited over the side of the bed into the rubbish bin. Ms. Busybody started back, going up on her toes as though to keep the vomit off her shoes. Then as though she had remembered herself, stepped forward to smooth back the boy’s hair.

"You're alright, dear. You're alright, I know you feel awful. It's alright. Sportacus will take you home to rest, won't you Sportacus?”

The smell of Stingy’s distress sank into him, acrid and stinging in his sinuses, activating some primal part of his brain that was used to fixing things. His hands felt like they wanted to shake. Stingy lay on his side, his body hung limp off his spine like a puppet with the strings cut. "Of course," he whispered. "But surely I can't just take him home and leave him like this?"

"I think I'm dying," Stingy whispered, shivering in pain with each word he spoke.

"There has to be something that can be done," Sportacus whispered again, barely loud enough to hear. 

"Well, if you have some kind of magic something that's one thing, but I don't."

"Magic?" he squeaked out.

Ms. Busybody rolled her eyes at him. "Nine was here for quite a while until Robbie ran him off.”

"Robbie ran him off?" Nine had never said why he had left.

"He's been nicer with you, I think because you're less… aggressive. Comparatively. Maybe just softer. I think Nine scared Robbie a bit. He likes to be in control, that one," she told him, tossing her gloves away with a wrinkle of her nose.

"You really are quite good at reading people, aren't you?"

She huffed out a soft laugh, "Of course I am. Someone has to be in this town. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” 

“You will?” he asked in alarm. “His mother’s not off until six. I just take him home and leave him there?”

"He won’t be getting into any trouble like this, he’ll be fine for a few hours."

“You can’t take me home,” Stingy rasped out. “I don’t have a key.”

“You don’t have a key?” Sportacus blinked at him.

Stingy curled up into an even tighter ball. “Momma says being home alone isn’t safe, I play at Pixel’s house, or go to the Mayor’s until she gets home.”

That just wouldn't do, that wouldn't do at all. Sportacus couldn’t stay here in this tiny room and trying to get Stingy to the airship would be a nightmare, where else could he take the boy?

"I'll take him to someone who can help him feel better," Sportacus said, slipping back into his hero pose with his hands on his hips before remembering he needed to whisper. 

“Who?” she blinked at him.

"To Robbie," Sportacus told her, voice quiet. "You said he had migraines, he'll know what to do."

"I don't know if that's a great idea," she advised him.

Maybe not a _great_ one, but he didn’t need a great idea. Most of the time am average idea and a lot of work would do. Sportacus felt certain that if Robbie saw Stingy's face that he would let them in, that he would know what to do. "He'll help him, I'm certain of it.”

Belligerent optimism also went a long way toward accomplishing one’s goals.

She considered him. "I think he might. He might after all. Go on then. Just be careful with him, he isn’t feeling well. You need to be careful for the both of you."

He nodded, anxious, moving aside to let her leave the room.

“Stingy,” he said quietly, kneeling by his bedside. “You don’t have to respond if it hurts to talk, but I’m going to take you to Robbie’s so he can help you. I’m going to carry you there so you don’t have to walk.”

“Yeah, alright,” Stingy breathed out, reaching up to use Sportacus’ shoulder for support as he pulled himself upright. Sportacus tried to smile reassuringly as the boy wobbled in place.

He could walk to Robbie’s couldn’t he? Why did Robbie have to live so far away from all of them? When he lifted Stingy up in his arms, the boy groaned, in so much pain he was helpless in his arms. A secondhand agony lodged itself in Sportacus’ heart, he was so helpless himself. His Pabbi had told him plenty of times that sometimes not even good advice could solve a problem, that he’d have to be strong when that happened, but he hadn’t expected it would be like this, that Stingy’s pain would be his own. That he’d feel so inadequate. 

“It’s going to be alright, Stingy,” he told him as he stood. “It’ll be alright. I’ll get you there in no time.”

He’d have to walk very carefully. It seemed to take forever to get to Robbie’s billboard, Stingy frighteningly still in his arms. The boy seemed to have relaxed some, or he had tensed up so much he couldn’t flinch anymore. Laying Stingy down so he could have both hands free he opened the top of the bunker to save from the usual gonging knock and tapped with gentle knuckles on the inside of the tunnel entrance. He needn’t have worrying about being heard, no sooner had he given a couple raps then Robbie surged up, throwing the hatch back. Robbie could sure move fast when he was motivated.

“ _What_ Sportaflop? Did you do too many flips and make everything in your brain about manners go flying out your ears?”

“N-No, I-“ 

Robbie’s grin bloomed bright and white at the sight of Sportacus bouncing worriedly on his toes. “What has you all in distress?” he said. “I’ll have to get some of whatever it is.”

“Stingy has a migraine and he’s thrown up twice and he’s hurting,” Sportacus blathered at him, his hands knotting together.

That sly face that Robbie liked to put on fell away, his gaze intense on Sportacus’ face. “Is he with you?”

Sportacus nodded, grateful.

“Give him to me. I’ll take care of it.” He held out his arm, his nose wiggling. There was an authority in the set of his jaw that lifted the tension in Sportacus’ shoulders, lifted the weight somewhat off his chest. Stingy looked so small in Robbie’s arms; young, vulnerable, and precious in the way all children were. He made a discontented sound, but made no real effort to stir.

Robbie looked down at the boy in his arms, assessing, and then up at Sportacus. “Don’t just stand there fretting at the hatch, I won’t be able to get anything done with you pacing around up here.”

When he felt sure Robbie had moved out from under the entrance he leapt down. Robbie had organized Stingy in his big orange chair and was in what passed for the kitchen running water and arranging things. The lights had already been dropped low, the darkness brought out the illumination from the faint glow from the machines. A soft orange like the flesh of a cantaloupe and the soft violet that was the last color in the sky after sunset.

“Sportacus,” Robbie said, voice low and soft. A shadowy, winterdown voice. “There’s a flip switch by the door. Flip it, until the speakers lower, and then when they’re low enough, turn the volume knob to zero.”

The simple task filled Sportacus with gratitude, something to do while he waited. Anything that could be done to help the boy in the face of his pain, and in the face of Robbie’s practiced competency. 

Hovering nearby, Sportacus bounced on his toes, terrified to speak. Robbie strode out of his kitchen, almost silent and looking entirely certain of what to do. He spoke in a soft tone to Stingy, all simple questions as he knelt down. Had Stingy drunk water today? Had he slept last night? Did he feel nauseous now? Had he had a migraine before? Did he eat any cheese or anything red? Somehow the soft rumble of the questions seemed to relax Stingy, seemed to give him something to cling to, that there was someone helping him who knew what he was doing. The knit in his brow relaxed, and then the whiteness in his pinched together lips faded somewhat as Robbie pressed the cold cloth to Stingy’s forehead. Against the clatter of his heart in his chest, Sportacus concentrated on the low murmur of Robbie’s voice pitched low and soft as the early morning fog. He concentrated on the breadth of Robbie’s palm on Stingy’s head holding the compress in place, watched him flip it to the other side. How proficient Robbie was.

Sinking into a deep crouch, Sportacus breathed with his head between his knees. Breathing. Counting his breaths in and out. There was a new scent in the air, something he had always associated with Robbie’s underscent. Something… sparkly. Something authoritative. Then there was the scent of lavender, lighter and more real than the imitation Sportacus usually smelled around humans and then the bright high notes of peppermint drowning out almost everything else in the bunker. He watched Stingy’s body relax, his small hands going limp, his face turning into Robbie’s chair as he went to sleep.

“Hmm,” Robbie hummed to himself, soft and satisfied. “I really should get a bed in here, what if he has another migraine?”

“You don’t have a bed?” Sportacus asked, feeling like a brass band in the quiet Robbie had somehow weaved through the bunker.

“Mmm, too much trouble, not enough time,” Robbie told him, standing with a liquid elegance for all his long limbs wobbled and wiggled. “I keep meaning to expand, but that would take work. I don’t like doing work unless I can get it done fast and get it done well. I don’t even do this much work for myself when I have a migraine.”

“Don’t you?” Sportacus blinked up at him.  


The smile he got in return was half self-effacing, half teasing. “Sometimes misery is my favorite medicine. What’s the point of things if you can’t complain about them? Stingy will be alright now. He still won’t be feeling great, but it won’t be as bad when he wakes. People feel better after a nap. When he’s done sleeping it off you can take him home.”

Sportacus nodded once, three times, fives times, far too much and too frantically to seem calm.

He couldn’t look Robbie in the eye. Robbie hadn't mocked him yet, although he could have the moment Sportacus all but collapsed down into his lair. He could see his weakness reflected in the villain's eyes, analyzed in the hands on his hips, the tilt down of his eyebrows. With helpless weakness he stood and tried to pull his shaken and torn self-discipline around himself to prepare for the attack.

“You seem pretty shaken up.”

“What about it?” Sportacus puffed his chest out, felt his ears try to lay back.

“Relax, Sportaworry.” He took a couple steps forward and the familiarity of standing nose to nose with his nemesis was calming.

“I’m fine."

Robbie's large hand curled around the back of his neck. There was just the barest pull forward and Sportacus collapsed against him, his arms wrapping around Robbie on some instinct. Robbie laughed under his breath then hummed, a low even sound. “Relax, Sportacare. You’re little friend is alright, he’s going to be okay.”

“I- I’m fine.”  


“You were scared stiff and looked utterly destitute crouching there like a kicked dog.”

“Hey now,” Sportacus told Robbie’s shoulder.

Robbie’s hand offered him a little squeeze. “It’s okay to be scared when you care about someone.”

“I know.”

“Hey.” Robbie squeezed gently on the back of his neck again. “It’s okay to be scared when you care about someone. Don’t tell anyone, because I have to keep up my villain cred, but you did a good job. Stingy needed someone and you were that someone. You did it. Hooray.”

The last of the tension in Sportacus’ spine melted away. They just stayed there like that for a while, Sportacus tipping himself back toward center and Robbie twitching from time to time. “I didn’t know what to do though, I saw him in pain and I was so scared.” His heartrate started ratcheting up again, his hands felt shaky.

The villain pulled back, holding Sportacus by the shoulders as he examined his face. He didn’t look quite satisfied by what he found.

“Why are you being nice to me? Is- Is this a trick?” What kind of trick he couldn’t guess, but Robbie’s mind did the sort of acrobatics Sportacus could never try and replicate when it came to him plans.

"Do you know the difference between a criminal and a villain?" Robbie asked.

Sportacus wheezed unhelpfully.

"A criminal breaks the law. A villain makes art. Breaking you wouldn't be art, I'd sooner destroy a stained glass window as someone like yourself."

Sportacus looked up at him, face filled with something. He wasn't sure, he couldn't stop shaking, never mind control and take note of what exactly his face was doing, it felt a bit like hope though.

The villain rolled his eyes at that and pulled Sportacus close so the hero could hide his face again. "It figures you wouldn't get a pop culture reference if it hit you in the face like a halibut."

"I like halibut," he offered. 

"Of course you do." Robbie laughed, the sound rumbled through Sportacus’ chest cavity. 

It was a wonderful feeling, it made him feel enclosed and special. Like he was crouching at the edge of a great glacial crevice, too deep to see the bottom, the air cold enough to nip pink spot in his skin, smelling like clean water sweetness and the trapped bones of ancient things. Like he was small but still acceptable somehow. It was too bad Robbie was so good at being a villain, Sportacus thought he would make a very good hero.


End file.
